#punk!reader

"Leave him alone."

Dustin quickly looks up, eyeing you as you approach. Upon setting his eyes on you, he feels his heart melt a little bit, he isn't sure why, but he can feel something in his chest twist and his brain go numb. Something about that resting bitch face turned to an angry revenge revenge-seeking smile tore him apart.

Chance turns around, glaring at you as you stand in front of him, standing your ground. Dustin is your ground.

"What'd you just say, freak?"

You glare at him. "I said leave him alone."

He moves forward, standing up straight all up in your face to try and intimidate you. "And why should I, murderer?"

You scoff.

They blamed Eddie for Jason's, Patrick's, Chrissy's, and Fred's deaths, but now, they're calling you a murderer. Ironic. You may have been involved with trying to keep Eddie safe, but you didn't kill anyone. Still, this was better than them spraypainting Eddie's grave again.

You can tell that Dustin is thinking the same thing you are. He's fighting back a scoff so hard right now, you can tell by the way one of his dimples twitch and his eyebrows furrow. In a way, you want the curly-haired boy to reach out, grab the jock by the collar, and slam his head into the lockers behind him.

"Because, dick for brains," you spit, "If you don't, I'll take a pocket knife to your balls and pop them like water balloons," you threaten, flashing a pocket knife hiding away in your jacket pocket. "Remember when you had to waddle for a week when Lucas' little sister rocked your nuts to Hell in self-defense?" you rhetorically question, "You'll waddle forever. Say goodbye to your bloodline."

He eyes the pocket knife, a glare reflecting off the blade. He bites his tongue. At your side now stand Lucas, Mike, and Will, who you barely even knew. His friends awkwardly walk off, leaving him to battle a 4v1 himself if he so attempted it.

"Fine," he huffs before throwing one last word at Dustin, "Next time, you're fucking dead. Take it off."

You toss a collective glare at Chance as he stomps off all pissy. You quickly walk away, not wanting to continue to make a scene.

Lucas, Mike, and Dustin share looks and words, watching you step away to your next class.

"You haven't talked to Y/n since..." Lucas trails, "Right?"

Dustin shakes his head, entirely awestruck. "No, not a word."

Mike nods, "Seems they still care about the remaining Hellfire sympathizer...s"

Dustin shrugs their hands off his shoulders, staring down the hall where you disappeared. He could literally feel and hear the Blitzkrieg Bop radiating off of you, you were just that fucking cool.

Lucas instantly notices the hearts in Dustin's eyes once Mike and Will take their leave. He smirks and smacks the curly-haired brunette on the cheek, lightly, in a teasing way.

"Go talk to them, man," Lucas encourages with a smile.

Dustin shrugs, his cheeky smile quickly fading at the thought. He bites the inside of his cheek nervously. Ever since Eddie died, you hadn't spoken a word to one another, like a shared agreement to let your friendship die with your awesome super senior friend, considering you met through him. You didn't know what to say to each other.

"Nah..." the boy mutters, head hung low.

Dustin feared you wouldn't believe that Eddie sacrificed himself for him, yet you already knew that's how it went down. Eddie wouldn't just die... he'd go out with a bang, he'd go out saving someone else in a town that wanted him slaughtered.

Plus, ever since he and Suzie ended things, he was kind of mortified by the thought of admiring someone in a romantic way again. He was scared shitless when he started realizing he could feel that way for you, even though you didn't even talk anymore. He saw you frequenting the halls, biking around town, in passing at the WSQK, almost everywhere, but not a word was shared. He knew you visited Eddie's grave, Wayne's new trailer to have frozen dinners with him, the site of the old trailer where the cracks emerged, the closest you could find yourself to Eddie's death site. He spotted you, he always managed to, somehow.

You tried to immortalize Eddie's memory, something Dustin didn't know how to express gratitude for. You remembered him for who he was. You knew Eddie, and you weren't going to pretend that you didn't like the others. Gareth was in your grade, and Dustin hadn't even seen you two talk in years. He wondered if you even went to the others' graduations, if you were expecting to cheer and clap when his name was called at your graduation ceremony.

Lucas raises an eyebrow in confusion, "Dude, what? 'Nah'? Are you alright?"

Dustin nods with a little edge, "We haven't spoken in forever. It was clearly a mutual agreement since..."

Lucas bites his lip, rapidly thinking, gears churning inside his head. "Just say thank you for earlier, ask how they're doing, see if they'd wanna go to Eddie's grave with you sometime."

Dustin sighs deeply. "If I do, will you get off my ass?"

Lucas nods with a devious smile.

"Fine."

Honestly, Dustin hadn't noticed how much you had changed since Eddie's death, in a fashion sense. Not at first, at least. You went from flannels and beat-up sneakers like Mike wore to Doc Martens, denim jackets with band and morality patches on them, distressed jeans, and wore spikey and studded accessories.

He had changed too, as you'd come to notice as he approached you in the library. He used to wear bright colors and kept his hair on the short-ish side, which paired his new Thinking Cap with everything he wore, including his toothy smile. Now, he usually wore a Hellfire shirt, dark jeans, and a trench coat. He grew his hair out, much like Eddie's, as it ran down to his shoulders. His smile was gone, replaced by a look of... dread, really. He wore rings, too, some you'd stolen from Eddie long ago when you were prepping a style change.

Dustin stood over you, listening to the punk music blasting out of your headphones before you noticed him and turned it down before pulling them off your ears. He recognized the tune, but he couldn't pinpoint the exact song. You changed a lot, maybe for the better, for your own good. Maybe that's how you seemed alright, despite everything, whilst he was suffering every single day, fighting to keep himself together.

You look up, eyes silently questioning his sudden appearance.

"Thank you," he speaks, "For earlier."

You nod. Your eyes show no sign of disrespect, just genuine care. "No matter what, I have your back. You are Hellfire, Henderson."

He raises an eyebrow, his stern stare faltering.

"You are what Hellfire expected of its members. You have single-handedly immortalized that club in this school, in this town, whether you realize it or not. Whether or not they see us as cultist freaks or as dweebs with a D&D board is debatable, but either way, you did that. You did it for Eddie."

You notice him chewing the inside of his cheek.

"Sorry- I..." you exhale, "The fact you kept it... the original one, that shows I can trust you. You walk around these halls looking for a fight, and never once have you let it take you down. You're what we need, what this whole world needs."

He takes this time to notice one of the patches on your jacket, the one with the cutoff sleeves that you wore every day. One of them isn't a patch, it's hand-painted. The Hellfire logo. Just seeing it makes him want to break out into tears, you care just as much as he does. It wasn't even about Hellfire anymore. It was about justice, morality, what's right and what's wrong.

Under the breast pocket, drawn in bare Sharpie, read 'color outside the lines.' and under that was a red '77'. Fuck, he caught onto that too fast for his liking. Jesus Christ, why the fuck does he find this attractive?

"You cared, too." he chokes, "You... you always did. You deserve more credit than I do."

You shake your head and stand up. You wrap your arms around him. Something about the chipped nail polish on your fingers that rested on his spine made him feel so... felt, in a way. He'd always wanted to paint his nails and embrace more punk culture, something about you just being there, showing that he really was a punk, it opened his eyes.

He's beyond flustered and brain-dead to the point of self-destruction. He wants to cry, right in the school library, into your arms. He's so confused, unsure if what he's feeling is platonic or romantic love, and which he should reciprocate.

You shake your head, allowing him to hide his face in your neck and shoulders. "You were always his favorite, y'know?"

Dustin sniffles, fighting back genuine tears.

"Actually, uh, I've been meaning to give you something," you note, unraveling your arms from around him, "It's at my locker. It's important."

He looks up after wiping his tears, silently wondering what you have for him. You grab your backpack and take his hand to lead him to your locker across the school floor. The trip is silent, your heavy footsteps echoing through the halls.

Upon reaching your locker, you fidget with the lock and move a spare jacket that was hanging on one of the hooks on the side. Upon moving it, you reveal a hole in the side of your locker, breaking into the one next to yours. You dig your hand in and with a couple of swipes, manage to open the other locker from the inside. You toss your bag on the floor as you hide whatever lurks in the second locker from Dustin. He makes a 360 spin, wondering if anyone else may be seeing what he is.

From the locker, you retrieve a lightwash denim jacket with the sleeves cut off. You hand it to Dustin, and within an instant, he realizes what it is. The original Hellfire battle jacket prototype. The one with the hand-painted D&D game on the back, with five warriors fighting a three-headed dragon over lava. At the top, in some gothic-looking font, was 'The Hellfire Club.' On the front rests a hand-painted logo, the Hellfire demon, same horns and all. On the right breast pocket sits two red D20s.

He clutches it in his hands, holding on so tight like he expects it to fly away in the wind. He's out of breath, caught in a whirlwind of surprise.

"How- how do you have this?" he questions frantically, looking up at you with genuine shock and surprise.

"I painted it, remember?" you chuckle, "That's Eddie's first senior year locker, the one no one uses cause they only remember his last one..."

He nervously chuckles and smiles, unable to express what he's feeling. "You- you kept it?"

"Why wouldn't I? It's one of the last things I have tying to Hellfire." you shrug, opening the locker door in full, showing him the multitude of old stickers on the inside of the door that Eddie used to vandalize school property. You kneel and lift the bottom plate, revealing an old weed stash, which was one of Eddie's that he'd forgotten about. "You know I don't smoke, or deal."

Tears stream down his cheeks. "Shit, man... damn."

You softly smile, leaning against the wall of lockers beside you. "I want you to keep it, Dustin. You deserve it. I... I can't hang onto it."

He raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I can't let it weigh me down. Eddie wanted me til I graduated, anyway. We wanted it to go from leader to leader, as a tradition." you answer, arms crossed.

He stares at the jacket in his hands, staining it with salty tears. He could truly kiss you in this moment, confused by the difficult emotions he feels in his head and his heart.

"You were going to be the next leader when I graduated, or left." you admit, "Always were. Eddie, me, then you. Eddie didn't ever wear it because I hadn't finished it in time for spring break. I was gonna finish it that night of the game, the night Chrissy died. And then... I hadn't picked it up again until a couple months ago."

You finished it just for him. Just to give it to him.

"I understand if you hate me now, since we haven't talked," you shrug, "But you deserve to have it. It's rightfully yours. I'm leaving in a couple of months, so you get to be the official leader now. Okay?"

Dustin slowly nods, barely processing any of what's happening. "Thank you. Thank you, really, so much."

You nod and smile, eyeing his gracious eyes and smile. He slips the jacket on, and the tears pour even harder. You swiftly wrap him in another hug, just holding him close.

"Can we be friends again?" he cries.

You smile. "Of course, we can."

"And can you make me a mixtape of your favorite punk songs?"

You airily laugh, "Of course I can. Anything for you, Dustin."

The way you say his name makes him want to crumble into a million pieces, like a week-old cookie.

"You're the coolest person I've ever met."

A punk through and through, you wore your rebellion like a second skin—leather jacket scuffed from too many fights, chains clinking with every step, tattoos winding up your arms like battle scars. The people here knew you, respected you, maybe even feared you a little. But fear was just another form of admiration, wasn’t it?

And then there was Vi.

You’d heard whispers about her before you ever met her—Stillwater’s ghost, the pit-fighting legend, Vander’s lost girl. She carried her past like an anchor, wrapped in bruised knuckles and barely-contained fury.

The first time you saw her, she was knocking a guy twice her size out cold in the ring, her signature gauntlets absent but her fists just as devastating. She stood there, shoulders rising and falling with adrenaline, a grin splitting her face like she hadn’t just broken someone’s nose.

You leaned against a rusted railing, lighting a cigarette. “Not bad, Pink.”

She turned, eyes locking onto you—eyes sharp enough to cut. “That supposed to mean something?”

You exhaled smoke, smirking. “Means you can throw a punch. But can you take one?”

That’s how it started—an unspoken challenge, a rivalry laced with something deeper, something electric. You clashed in the pit, fists flying, bruises blooming like warpaint. She fought with the precision of someone who had everything to prove. You fought like you had nothing to lose.

It was a dangerous balance.

But the fights were just the surface. The real war happened in late-night walks through Zaun’s twisting alleys, where she asked about the anarchy symbols inked into your knuckles, and you traced the “VI” tattoo under her eye with your fingertips.

“You ever think about leaving this place?” she asked one night, voice rough from exhaustion, blood dried at the corner of her lip.

You shrugged. “Zaun’s in my bones. Running won’t change that.”

She hummed, staring out over the flickering city lights. “Yeah. I get that.”

There was a quiet understanding between you—two fighters, two lost souls, both too stubborn to break, too damaged to heal.

One night, after a particularly brutal match, you found her sitting on the edge of a rooftop, knuckles raw, shoulders slumped.

“You keep hitting walls like that, you’re gonna break before they do,” you muttered, sitting beside her.

She scoffed. “Ain’t the first time.”

You sighed, nudging her boot with yours. “Vi.”

She glanced at you, eyes dark, guarded. “What?”

You hesitated, then reached out, fingers ghosting over the cut on her cheek. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. Just let you touch her, let you see her—past the bravado, past the scars.

“I’m not gonna tell you to stop fighting,” you said softly. “But maybe… fight for something that won’t kill you.”

She exhaled sharply, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to be?”

You smirked, leaning in just enough for your breath to brush her lips. “You tell me, Pink.”

And then, just like that, she kissed you—hard, desperate, like she was trying to pull the fight out of you and into her.

But you weren’t fighting this.

Not this time.

You stood out like a sore thumb in the bioluminescent jungle and honestly, you liked it that way. Combat boots scuffed from kicking rocks and jerks. A patched-up vest hung open over a band tee no one on Pandora could pronounce. The deathhawk? Still standing tall, defying gravity and Na’vi judgment alike.

Tsu’tey noticed. Of course he did.

The first time he saw you, you were standing on a fallen log, one foot up like you were about to launch yourself at the sun. Your mohawk caught the light in wild streaks of neon blue at the tips, freshly dyed with something from the lab. Feathers and safety pins hung from your ears, a dark band tee clung to your frame, and your boots? Your boots had spikes on them.

You were yelling at someone. Loud. Righteous.

Tsu’tey understood about one word in five, but it was enough to know you were telling off one of the sky people. One of the wrong ones. The kind who still talked like they owned the place.

The man didn’t talk back. He just turned and walked away with a busted lip and a red face.

You hopped down from the log, muttering to yourself. Then you saw Tsu’tey.

“What?” you snapped, hands on your hips.

He tilted his head. “Nothing.”

“Didn’t look like nothing.”

“You fight with much noise.”

“Yeah. And?”

He blinked, clearly not used to humans coming at him like this like you weren’t afraid of him, even though he was twice your size and definitely armed.

“You are small.”

“Tell that to the guy who’s bleeding.”

Tsu’tey’s lips twitched. Not quite a smile. Not yet.

At first, he looked at you like you were some kind of small, angry animal. Loud. Sharp. Strange. But not weak.

“You carry yourself like a warrior,” he said once, arms crossed, tone unreadable.

You smirked, chewing gum you weren’t supposed to bring off base. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is not,” he said, cocking his head. “But warriors do not wear… skulls on their chest.”

You looked down at your Misfits tee. “You’re one to talk. You wear actual bones.”

He grunted at that, almost amused.

That was weeks ago. Since then, you’d gotten used to his stares. Not creepy just curious. Tsu’tey had this way of watching people like he was reading them, and you? You were a whole damn novel in a language he didn’t know yet.

Then came the moment.

One of the RDA defectors big guy, mouth like a sewer and hands where they didn’t belong grabbed one of the Omaticaya girls during trade negotiations. You didn’t wait. You didn’t ask. You just swung a wrench into his ribs hard enough to hear the wind leave him.

By the time he hit the dirt, Tsu’tey was at your side.

“I had it,” you said, wiping blood from your knuckles with a bandana that used to be your mom’s.

“I know,” he said, eyes gleaming in the dusk. “I only came to watch.”

You stared at him.

He stared right back, then added, “And to ask… what is punk music?”

You grinned. “Come by my hut after sundown. I’ll blow your mind.”

Later that night, Tsu’tey ducked beneath the curtain of moss covering your doorway. His movements were quiet, but his presence was anything but. He always filled a room especially yours, which was cluttered with scavenged tech, threadbare blankets, and your prized old-world music player sitting like a shrine in the corner.

You were crouched beside it, fiddling with the wires.

“I wasn’t sure you’d actually show,” you said without turning around.

“I gave my word.” His voice was closer now. You felt him watching again.

You straightened and faced him. “Alright. Get ready.”

You hit play.

Distorted guitar blasted out, raw and unapologetic. Fast. Loud. Alive. The punk track thrashed through the room like a fight breaking out at a sacred ceremony.

Tsu’tey flinched slightly. “Is… this an alarm?”

You barked out a laugh. “Nope. This is The Dead Kennedys. One of Earth’s greatest gifts to angry people everywhere.”

He looked unconvinced, but didn’t cover his ears. He watched you instead.

You started nodding to the beat, then dancing kind of. More like bouncing in place with aggressive energy.

“Come on, it’s about feeling it. No rules. No steps. Just rage, joy, defiance whatever you’ve got. Let it out.”

“I do not dance.”

“You don’t have to dance. Just listen.”

He moved toward the speaker like it might bite him. Crouched beside it. Put a hand over the vented side, feeling the sound as much as hearing it.

“It sounds like war,” he murmured.

“In a way,” you said. “Punk was for people who felt like the world wasn’t listening. So they screamed back.”

He looked at you again, eyes lingering a little too long this time.

“You scream,” he said. “Not always with your voice.”

You suddenly felt too warm. “Yeah, well. Maybe some people need to hear it loud.”

He stood again, towering over you in that intimidating but hot way he always did. His braids swayed as he tilted his head slightly, studying you like something worth learning.

“You are like this music.”

You blinked. “Loud and pissed off?”

“Loud. And true.”

And then, for just a moment, the music wasn’t the loudest thing in the room.

You weren’t supposed to stay long with the Omaticaya. Just long enough to help set up tech to filter the air in the ruined sections of forest. Long enough to show some kids how to make bracelets from stripped copper wire. Long enough to drop off a box of salvaged music files and bootleg Earth tracks.

But somehow… you stayed.

Somehow, you were still there a month later, sitting cross-legged on the floor of your handmade hut, punching rivets into leather cuffs while Dead Kennedys blared from your beat-up speaker.

Tsu’tey started showing up more.

First, it was subtle. Passing by. Watching from a distance.

Then closer.

Then talking.

Then sitting beside you in companionable silence while you explained why punk rock wasn’t just “angry noise.”

“It is,” you said, fiddling with the aux cord, “but it’s like… meaningful angry noise.”

Tsu’tey narrowed his eyes. “Explain.”

“Okay. So, Earth’s kind of a garbage fire. Punk was for people who didn’t have power people who were mad and loud and done with the status quo. They didn’t want approval. They wanted change.”

Tsu’tey sat in silence, absorbing that. Then he looked at you.

“You are not like the others,” he said softly.

“Guess that’s the point.”

“I like it.”

Your heart stuttered. “You like punk?”

“I like you.”

There was a pause electric, tight, like the space between lightning and thunder.

You leaned in, smirking. “Careful, Tsu’tey. You say stuff like that, I might write a song about you.”

“I would listen.”

Your breath caught somewhere between a heartbeat and a scream.

No one had ever said that before. Not like that.

Tsu’tey didn’t look away.

His eyes gold-flecked and sharper than your favorite switchblade locked on yours with the kind of intensity that made breathing optional. The music player kept going, spitting out angry vocals and wild drums, but neither of you were really listening anymore.

You broke the silence first, mostly because you had to.

“Say that again.”

He blinked slowly. “Which part?”

“The part where you said you liked me. Wanted to make sure I didn’t imagine it.”

“I do not say things I do not mean.”

That should’ve scared you. Or at least made you bolt for the door like you usually did when things got too real. But this wasn’t some guy in a leather jacket who wanted to “fix you.” This was a warrior who saw exactly who you were and wasn’t flinching.

“I’m not… gentle,” you said, trying to sound flippant but failing. “I talk too loud. I fight too dirty. I don’t fit.”

“You fit here,” he said, stepping closer.

You tilted your head. “In this room?”

“In this world. With us. With me.”

You hated how fast your pulse reacted to that. You hated even more how you kind of loved it.

“So what you gonna start bringing me around the clan like your weird human girlfriend with the bad attitude and better taste in music?”

He smiled not a smirk, not a smothered huff, but an actual, genuine curve of his lips. You hadn’t seen him do it often. It kind of ruined you a little.

“They already speak of you,” he said. “The bold one. The small storm. The one who fought a man twice her size and spat on his boots after.”

You grinned. “He deserved worse.”

“I know,” he said, and it was almost a growl approving, proud. Wanting.

His hand brushed yours, light at first. Testing.

You didn’t pull away.

“I’ve had crushes before,” you murmured, stepping into his space, heart hammering behind your ribs like it was trying to mosh. “But you? You’re gonna ruin me.”

He leaned down slowly, foreheads almost touching now. “I would never ruin you.”

You swallowed. “You’re kind of already doing it.”

He tilted his head. “Then let me do it fully.”

His hand moved to your cheek, surprisingly gentle for someone with arms strong enough to snap trees. His thumb grazed your skin, and you leaned into the touch without thinking.

And then Your lips met like a dare.

Not soft, not sweet but honest. Your hand tangled in his braids like a challenge. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you close like he’d decided: this is mine now.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and blinking, he said it again:

“I like you.”

You smirked, lips swollen, voice low. “Yeah. I noticed.”

One evening, everything changed.

The clan had gathered near the Tree of Souls, the air thick with memory and music and murmured prayers. You stood near the back, unsure if you belonged here still human, still offbeat, still not them.

When a sneering voice from the shadows muttered, “Why is she here?”

You didn’t see who said it. You didn’t need to. Your fists clenched. Old instincts flared.

But before you could open your mouth and ruin the peace of the evening, Tsu’tey stepped forward. In front of you. Blocking the gaze of the others like a living wall.

“She is here,” he said, calm but sharp as a blade, “because she has earned it. And if anyone doubts that speak louder.”

Silence.

Your chest tightened, and for once, you had nothing to say.

When the gathering ended, you caught up with him under the soft glow of bioluminescent vines.

“Hey,” you said.

He looked down at you. “You were going to fight again.”

You shrugged. “Old habits.”

“You do not need to fight here.”

“I always need to fight,” you muttered. “It’s who I am.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer. “It is what you were made to be. But it is not all that you are.”

You stared at him, heart thudding, unsure what to do with how gentle his voice sounded.

He touched your mohawk lightly, fingers brushing the stiff, dyed strands like they were sacred. “You are fierce. Beautiful. Loud. And yet… you are soft where it matters.”

Your face flushed. “That’s not very punk of me.”

“I like it.”

You looked up at him, eyes sharp. “You like a lot of things about me lately.”

“I do.”

You swallowed. “That’s dangerous.”

“Good,” he said. “I like danger.”

Then he kissed you. Not fast. Not wild. But slow like he was learning your edges one moment at a time. Like he wanted to know all the reasons you’d built your armor, just so he could take it off piece by piece.

You didn’t say anything after.

Just leaned your head against his chest, letting the jungle breathe around you.

Somewhere behind you, your music player clicked to the next track.

Tsu’tey tilted his head at the distorted guitar spilling out.

“What is this one called?”

You smiled against his shoulder. “Anarchy in the U.K.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I like this song.”

You grinned. “You would.”

You told yourself it was just a kiss.

Okay, maybe not just a kiss. It was a “change your molecular structure” kind of kiss. A “forget your own name but remember his” kind of kiss.

And now you had a problem.

Because the next morning, you woke up to three Omaticaya teens watching you from the tree platform next to your hut. Whispering. Giggling. One of them made a kissing noise as you stretched.

You flipped them off and went back inside.

By mid-afternoon, the rumors had evolved into full-blown jungle wildfire.

You caught fragments of it everywhere.

“She kissed him under the glowing tree.”

“She challenged a warrior last week Tsu’tey likes the dangerous ones.”

“Her hair is a weapon.”

“I heard she put spikes in her boots on purpose.”

You growled and yanked a vine curtain closed behind you, nearly breaking it.

“You alright?” said a voice behind you.

Tsu’tey. Of course.

You turned to find him leaning against the carved archway of your hut, arms crossed over his chest, cool as ever.

“No, I’m not alright,” you said. “Your people are nosey. And loud. And apparently bored enough to dissect my love life like it’s a field hunt.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Our love life?”

You froze. Then groaned.

“Don’t say it like that. You’re gonna make it real.”

“It is real.”

That stopped you cold.

Tsu’tey stepped forward, voice dropping. “You kissed me.”

“Yeah, and now the whole clan thinks we’re bonded for life.”

“Would that be so terrible?” he asked, serious now. Eyes locked on yours.

You stared at him. “Okay, first of all, I am not a ‘life bond’ kind of girl. I’m a ‘don’t touch my music player and maybe I won’t punch you’ kind of girl.”

He leaned in, close enough to feel the heat off his skin. “But you let me touch your music.”

You hated that your pulse jumped.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered.

“You are angry,” he replied.

“I’m embarrassed, actually. There’s a difference.”

Tsu’tey reached out, thumb brushing along your jaw. “Let them talk. They are not the ones I want.”

You tilted your head. “You sure about that? I’m a walking scandal. You could have someone soft. Peaceful. Not someone who once told Mo’at to ‘get off my case.’”

“I do not want peaceful,” he said. “I want you.”

Your heart gave a very un-punk flutter.

“…Okay, but if this gets me exiled, you’re carrying my gear.”

He chuckled, low and rough. “Agreed.”

That night, he walked with you through the village. Not holding hands he wasn’t the type but close enough to let everyone see it.

The whispers started again. Some respectful. Some shocked. Some envious.

You rolled your eyes, but Tsu’tey didn’t so much as blink.

Later, as you sat near the edge of a tree platform overlooking the forest, you nudged him with your knee.

“You know this is only going to get messier, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re still in?”

He looked out into the jungle. “I have fought for many things. But this… you… I will fight with.”

You looked at him, at the warrior who’d once terrified you. Who now felt like safety and fire all at once.

And for once, you didn’t have a snarky comeback.

Just a hand on his knee. Just the silence between two people who weren’t running anymore.

And in the distance, someone was absolutely still whispering about you.

But you didn’t care.

Steve threw a quirked brow your way while taking a sip from his half-empty, seashell pink wine glass. "Seriously? Even her voice?"

You gasped at him. "How dare you? Her voice is cute! And just wait ‘til you hear her sing ‘Suddenly, Seymour’, Ellen Greene kills! Just a little taste of that hidden power and then poof! Back to the mousiness. Incredible."

The two of you were lounging on the couch, part of the way through Little Shop of Horrors. At this point, you both had your feet kicked up on your coffee table, still cleared off from pizza work earlier that evening. Steve had gotten up at some point to pop some popcorn, which now sat in a bowl jammed between one of your and one of Steve’s legs, the only thing putting any distance between you. Your arms were still stretched out on the back of the couch, the hand closest to Steve occasionally brushing against his neck or catching a stray hair when he turned to look at you. When it happened the first couple of times, you had thrown apologetic looks his away, but he hadn’t seemed to notice—or if he did, he wasn’t bothered.

Eventually, when it happened again, you had noticed the smallest of smiles twitching at the corners of Steve’s mouth, although he kept looking pointedly forward. After that, you stopped worrying about it.

Steve chuckled and rolled his eyes at you now. "Didn't take you for a musical nerd."

That made you throw your head back in an unapologetic cackle. "What, did the style revolving around a music genre and culture not clue you in? The three years of choir maybe? Music being a big part of film production, which is something I’m a nerd about? Interest in music doesn’t just stop at a different genre of it. Well… maybe for some but—"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Steve threw his hands up in surrender, but the smile he was wearing was sweet. He could hem and haw and roll his eyes all he damn pleased, but you knew that Steve loved being a confidant of his friends’ interests, even when he didn’t know much about them. Especially when he didn’t know much about them.

A scene of Audrey II popped up on the TV screen, the plant having grown exponentially since its last appearance onscreen. Your eyes lit up as you pointed at it, leaning forward with a giddiness that only punk concerts and explaining about film creation could elicit from you. "Did you know that she’s all puppetry? Onstage and in the film. They made a bunch of different puppets for her—obviously—and there’s a team of puppeteers piloting her. The reason she looks so clean is because they’d shoot shots at different frame rates to make her movements look faster."

Steve leaned forward as well. His was more in confusion, though, as he tilted his head and squinted at the screen. "I don’t see anybody."

"They’re most likely hidden in the set," you explained. "Under the floor, in Twoey’s pot, behind the walls and such. Stuff like fishing line probably helps too. Skinny, transparent, thus harder to see on film after the editing is done."

"Huh." Steve frowned and nodded in a way that gave off severe dad energy—that said he didn’t get it but was glad that you were enjoying yourself. He leaned back into the couch, taking the time to take over the back of it with his arms since yours were no longer there. "Cool."

You grinned at him. It was mostly due to the film talk but, as you looked at him, you were also thoroughly pleased to see him so comfortable and lax in your home. The lighting really did do him justice, casting him in a warm glow that brought out the brown of his hair and eyes, the yellow of his shirt. The stained glass lamps casted various shapes of color around the room, some of which landed across Steve’s form in an incredibly artful way. For a moment you wished you had a camera to take a picture of him before ultimately pushing the thought aside. A camera would never do the scene justice.

A breeze from the cracked window above the TV pulled you out of your reverie with a shiver. Careful not to disturb the mood, you quietly got up and scooted around the other side of the coffee table to avoid Steve having to move his legs. You closed the window by the TV, then moved to shut the small panel window on your front door as well. You felt Steve’s eyes follow you all the while.

You turned to him, waving a hand. "You keep watching, I’ve seen this in theaters and the one from the 60s. Finally cooled off a bit, gonna go grab a jacket."

"Do you just want mine?" Steve asked. Clearly getting comfy to the point of not wanting to move, he stretched out with one lazy arm until a finger could snag the jacket from its place discarded over a nearby chair. He shifted the arm in your direction, holding the article of dark blue clothing out to you.

You raised an eyebrow. "You're not cold?"

Steve shrugged, then nodded to the vest you were wearing. "Trade ya?"

You snorted but found yourself already tugging the denim off your body. "It’s a vest. Not particularly warm."

Steve shrugged again, smiling. He looked so cozy burrowed into your burnt yellow couch. "Can give me one of your hoodies then. What about that one that you did for Halloween last year? You replaced the sleeves with a different one and did a, uh… bleach? Dye? Skull design thing on it?"

"Why don’t you wear your own jacket?" You didn’t know why you were being contrarian. You really wanted to wear his jacket. You really wanted to give him something of yours that you could see him snuggled into. You pulled your vest off.

You hadn’t paid much attention to how the fit of your tank top’s sleeves hung a bit lower on your body than normal, exposing the bit of scarring closest to your underarms. You only noticed when, while your arm was raised to toss the vest aside, Steve’s eyes dropped to stare at them.

You stood there, frozen, gauging him. You could tell right away that there wasn’t a hint of meanness or even judgment in his eyes. It was mostly curiosity, like he didn’t understand why you did it—he’d already said so, he didn’t—although you could see a hint of sadness there too.

"Penny for your thoughts?" You questioned quietly after a few too-silent moments had passed.

Steve’s eyes immediately flicked up to meet yours. He looked like a kid having been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Still, he nodded toward the scar, still pink and new. "Was it painful?"

You shrugged, rolled your head a bit in thought. In the meantime, you tossed your vest on the chair and snagged Steve’s jacket from him. You pulled it on, the soft fabric immediately encasing your bare arms in warmth and the smell of cologne and hairspray.

You said, "The procedure itself? Nah, I was knocked out. Probably too knocked out, actually. They kept me overnight to make sure I was waking up proper because they had a hard time getting me to wake up to take my meds. The recovery was kinda rough, though. I didn’t do the opiates, just basic painkillers, for obvious reasons. And didn't really have anybody to stay with me, so I—"

"You should’ve called me." Steve’s voice sounded tight. You could tell he was trying to keep sounding nonchalant, but the pain in his eyes was telling. "I would’ve come. Robin too, maybe. Make it a road trip to the city, could’ve been fun."

Your cheeks warmed under his intense, long-lashed stare. You rolled your eyes anyway. "Oh, yeah, have you take a week or so off work and do a six-hour drive just to take care of me. Not just you, Robin too! That would’ve gone over well with your jobs."

"Your safety is more important than my job," Steve said simply, sternly. You weren’t sure he had even blinked in the past few minutes, his dark eyes trained on you as he waved a dismissive hand at the idea of picking his job over being with you. "Especially Family Video. Replaceable. Easy. Wouldn’t even have to think about it. You’re not, you know."

Your next breath came out heavy. Your skin felt itchy and far too warm. The entire trailer felt like it was heating up to the point that you were briefly concerned you had left the stove on. You knew that wasn’t the case, though. It was just you. It was just Steve.

"Yeah, well," you mumbled, "everything turned out okay. Here I am. But… thanks. ‘Ll keep that in mind. Hang tight, I’ll grab that hoodie."

Steve’s eyes burned holes in your back all the way down the hall.

~~~~~

Steve really had no business looking as cute as he did cozied up in one of your sweatshirts. Rumpled hair that he’d given up on as the night has gone on. Nose tucked close to the collar, hands stuffed comfortably into the sleeves. Sleepy, half-lidded eyes, but if he had any desire to go home, he didn’t make you aware of it. 

That sweatshirt in particular was one of your cooler projects, in your humble opinion. Originally an entirely black sweatshirt that you had worn to the point of thinning and fading to an ugly brown over the years, you had broken out the dye and dyed it back to its original rich color. Then, probably counter-intuitively, you had also broken out the bleach and bleach-dyed a messy skull design into the sweatshirt’s front; the back received an anatomically correct skeletal back pattern. The sleeves, too long anyway and beginning to fray, you had decided to replace with those from a soft orange sweater you had thrifted. Any patching needed was done in the rest of the sweater’s material—in a series of fun, Halloween-y shapes, like pumpkins and bones—as well as reinforcing the sweatshirt’s thinning body from the inside. It had been one piece of a last-minute Halloween costume puzzle, black jeans and boots bleach-dyed or painted with similar bony patterns and a cheap skeleton mask Joyce Beyers let you snag from her shop for a single buck as the only sale of the night, after Steve and Robin invited you to party-hop with them. You had quickly gotten bored out of your mind with the parties themselves, but your favorite duo’s company was always a joy. 

You were over at the TV again, popping out Little Shop of Horrors and putting Gremlins in. Echoing Steve’s question about the first movie of the night, you asked, "What’d you think about Little Shop of Horrors?"

"Well, that puppet can sing," Steve said, his response a bit delayed in his lazy state. "You were right, the puppeti-ng is really cool at the end there."

You hummed in agreement as you stood up and shuffled back to the couch, tucking your hands into the pockets of Steve’s jacket. "'Mean Green Mother From Outerspace' and 'Feed Me' are the best songs in it. Levi Stubbs."

"So…" Steve ventured after a moment. His eyes drifted over to you suspiciously, causing you to break out in a sneaky smile. "Gonna tell me what we’re watching now?"

"A Robin recommendation?" You offered.

Steve’s eyes narrowed. "What did she do?"

Your smile widened as Gremlins began to roll. Throwing your hands up in surrender as Steve’s glare turned severe, you said, "Her note said, and I quote, ‘Steve will be crawling all over you’ followed by a cute little heart. I had to know what that means, Stevie. Simply had to."

Steve was now a statue, all taut and stony. 

"Steve," you tried after a moment, "do the weird little fluffballs… make you horny?"

Steve blanched, choked a breath, and you cackled in response. He immediately went onto the defense—"What? No! What the hell?"—before your laughing clued him in and he went back to glaring at you. "You’re joking."

You snorted and pretended to wipe a tear from your eyes. "Yeah, no shit, I’m kidding. So, what, not puppets, clearly, but animatronics get you a little spooked?" 

In his mind, Steve was losing arbitrary cool points by the second, that goofy standard of his that he felt made him worthy of existing in the world. You could see it in the way he was getting increasingly flustered, shaking his head and waving his hands around like he could fight off the—loser allegations? You didn’t know. He was wrong, of course. Cool points didn't count past high school, and Steve Harrington was a dork. There just was no fighting it. He was an awkward, lovable, sometimes-too-handsome-for-his-own-good dork. 

While you looked on like a pleased cat after it had pushed a vase off a shelf, Steve pointed a dangerous finger in your direction. "No, listen, listen—"

Your hands flung up as you laughed again. "I’m listening!"

Steve went on, "I can do no eyes. I can do many eyes. What I cannot do is a singular pair of weirdly human, robotic eyes on a… not… human… thing. Okay?" 

"So it’s the eyes?" 

"Eyes and— and, like… the movements!" Steve continued to flail around, this time trying to mimic a robotic slowness. So, it was animatronics.

"You don’t even like Gizmo?" You moved your hands close together and held them up, peeking at Steve through them. "He’s just a little dude. Looks kinda like a chihuahua. Or a baby."

"I like both dogs and babies!" Steve hunched further into himself as the little Mogwai in question finally made its first appearance onscreen. "That is not a baby."

You were still thoroughly amused—what an incredible fact to learn about Steve, of all people—but you were ultimately sympathetic to his plight. You moved to the edge of the couch, ready to move to action if he willed it. "Want me to turn it off? I have an ass-load of movies in my room we can pick from instead. Or you can head home if you want, it is getting pretty late—"

"No!" Steve said, a little too quickly and a little more desperate than he’d intended. It hung in the air for a moment as the two of you stared at each other, your faces growing progressively redder. It may have been the first time during this entire night that you both acknowledged the tension, albeit nonverbally. 

Steve broke contact first. He took a deep breath and rolled his head and shoulders like he was preparing for a fight, then looked forward to glare at the TV. "I can handle it."

You can sense him laughing at you.

You squint your eyes open, relieving them from their scrunched up state. Miguel's lips are thinned as he tries to contain his laughter, the hold he has on your hand loose. You glare at him, and his eyes twinkle at you as you lay on the piercing table. You are so going to twist his nuts after this is over.

"This isn't funny." You hiss at him, turning your head away to not look at your body piercer as they prepare their equipment.

Miguel finally lets his chuckle out, rubbing his thumb soothingly against the back of your hand.

"It's just..." He starts off, a smile breaking on his face. "I've never seen you so scared before."

You huff, rolling your eyes. "Just because I'm scary, doesn't mean I don't get nervous every now and then."

Miguel's smile softens as he shakes his head, squeezing your hand tight. "I know. But I would think you would be used to this by now since you have so many piercings already."

Your mouth puckers to the side, humming in reluctant understanding and turning towards him slightly. "Yeah, but they still hurt."

Miguel hums back, smiling again when you freeze up as your piercer turns to you. You look at Miguel with wide eyes for a second before they turn back into glares.

"You better not let go of my hand Miguel O'Hara, or else I will make you cry like you've never cried before." You threaten.

Miguel nods obediently, tightening his hold on your hand as you move to lay straight and close your eyes. Your piercer chuckles at the banter, pressing down on the area that you want pierced to make sure there aren't any irregularities since the last time they checked a few minutes ago. Miguel sees the uneven rise and fall of your chest as you wait in anticipation, eyes scrunched tight.

"Promise, I'll even kiss it better when we're done." He reassures you.

You both silently agree to ignore the fact your voice was slightly pitchy the entire time you threatened him.

------------------------------------------

"Does it really take that long to read instructions?"

You're growing impatient, sitting crossed legged on a chair in the kitchen. You're wearing your go-to hair dying shirt, unwashable bleach stains and hair coloring marking the area around the collar and shoulders. All of the necessary tools to redye your hair sit on the counter closest to the two of you. Miguel is wearing the included gloves in the hair box kit you picked up from the store, the material straining as they're just able to fit his large hands. In his gloved hands are the hair dye box and the large pamphlet of instructions. By now, you would already have half of your head done, but Miguel insisted on helping you since he did promise at the bar that one night.

He's ready both the instructions on the box and in the pamphlet three times. In both English and Spanish. You cross your arms as you raise your brow at him, glaring at him.

"I've done this millions of times already, Miguel. But those fucking things down. I'll walk you through it." You groan.

Miguel ignored you, eyes squinting as he holds the paper closer to his face as he rereads. He's even got his fucking glasses out.

"Yeah, but I've never done this before. I don't want to damage your hair or something." Miguel argues as he flips the paper over to read the back, eyes skimming the paper in confusion until he realizes he's actually reading French.

"I don't know if you can tell but," You pause picking at a lock of your split-ended hair. "My hair's already fucked up. You literally can't fuck it up any more than it already is."

Miguel sighs as he puts the directions and paper back on the counter, finally beginning to mix the products together in the bowl included. He shakes his head as he does so, walking over to you so you can see if he's mixing it right. You smile at the sight of his concentrated face, tilting your head up when he's built up the courage to start applying it to your hair. You shiver slightly at the initial coldness, closing your eyes so it doesn't get into your eyes. Miguel is gentle as he applies the product and parts your hair to make sure it's spread evenly. Every now and then he stops to ask you for advice when he gets to a tricky patch of hair or is confused on how to part something.

But eventually, talking double the time it would if you did it yourself, Miguel steps away from you. Your eyes open slowly, seeing the look of pride on his face as he examines his work. You smile at the sight, reminding him to set a timer so you know when to wash your hair. While you wait, you help him clean up, making sure to look in the mirror to see if Miguel missed anywhere beforehand.

When you do wash your hair, the results turn out amazing. The color is vibrant and just how you imagined, and Miguel fawns over how amazing the new color looks on you. He even offers to take pictures of you for your Instagram, and you smile as you pull him into the frame, snapping a picture of you with your newly dyed hair and Miguel's excited face resting on your shoulder. When your friends and family start commenting and asking about who your new hairdresser was, you can't help but laugh.

Sorry, they're only reserved for me.